


All for One

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Cage, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape Play, bastinado, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 11:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14104089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: John promised Sherlock a holiday… but he never mentioned his mates would join in.It’s a sequel toOne for All, but you don’t need to read it… Unless you want to learn about a nice private orgy John and his ex-military buddies had with a certain private detective ;)





	All for One

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss) for beta-ing and to [da_petty ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/da_petty/pseuds/da_petty) for inspiration :)

When they open the boot, Sherlock doesn’t just squint in the bright artificial light of the garage—he glares. It’s a fierce and haughty stare: _How dare you_. He would probably have said that out loud if not for a makeshift gag in his mouth. If John didn’t know better, he might have thought they had kidnapped some kind of royalty, Shakespearean scale. Henry V, no less. It doesn’t matter that Sherlock is clad in nothing but his pajama pants and handcuffs. Oh, and the gag of course. Sherlock always looks like a posh, incorrigibly arrogant high-class sod, no matter what he wears or doesn’t wear. God knows how he manages that.

“He doesn’t look happy to see us,” Murray says. “Hey there. Didn’t you enjoy the ride?”

“Let’s get him out,” John says curtly.

Actually, Sherlock should be glad they haven’t had to drag him to Sholto’s secluded cottage all the way from London. Luring Sherlock to Sussex has been tricky, but totally worth the trouble. Not only because it has made the kidnapping part easier, but for Sherlock’s sake too. Several hours in a boot would have been torturous, while a short trip must have felt simply unpleasant.

But Sherlock doesn’t seem to appreciate it just yet, too angry and disoriented to be grateful for small mercies. He put up quite a fight as they dragged him to the car. Of course his meager combat skills didn’t help him against the three ex-military men. And thus he ended up in the boot of a nondescript black jeep, despite all his struggling, and with a cloth stained with gun oil in his mouth because he wouldn’t keep quiet.

On the whole, extracting Sherlock from a quiet B&B in the middle of the night has been hugely entertaining, at least for the abductors. A boost of adrenaline after a long stretch of mundane, uneventful life. Due to his connection to Sherlock Holmes, John has had more activity recently than either of his army buddies, which included lots of running around London, a few fights, and even some shooting. So he can’t begrudge Sholto and Murray for wishing to have an adventure. Dropping Sherlock twice on their way to the car was careless of course, but oh well, it wouldn’t have happened if Sherlock had stopped squirming, so it’s partly his own fault.

Sherlock doesn’t try to kick anymore as they drag him out. He’s smart enough to understand it will be futile. But his gaze frantically searches the garage, gathering more data.

John has no doubt Sherlock has estimated how long it’s taken them to get here, and catalogued every bump on the road, every sound he’s been able to hear, or rather the lack of any—no other traffic, no voices. He must be aware he’s practically in the middle of nowhere, in an isolated house surrounded by farmland, with little chances of escaping until he knows more of his surroundings. So he’ll be compliant for a while.

Sholto closes the boot, and they shove Sherlock against the car, pin him down, bent over at the waist, his cheek plastered to the bonnet of the car and his handcuffed hands trapped beneath him. Sholto and John hold him down, and Murray’s hands ghost over the hem of Sherlock’s pajama trousers.

“May I?” he asks John, as if the latter were Sherlock’s owner. Well, technically he is.

John nods. “Of course. That’s what he’s here for.”

Murray yanks Sherlock’s trousers down. Sherlock makes a loud protesting sound into the gag.

Sholto lets out a laugh. “Ha. He’s feisty. Just like I remember him. I thought you’d reined him in, Doc.”

“Nah, what would be fun in that? I’m sure you appreciate some spirit.”

“Fuck yeah,” Murray says, squeezing Sherlock’s buttocks. It’s unclear whether he’s commenting on Sherlock’s unruliness or his physique. Probably the latter. Sherlock has a shapely arse indeed; John has had the chance to enjoy it quite a number of times.

He moved in with Sherlock three month ago, on a spontaneous whim, after what was supposed to be a one-night stand. Or more exactly, a one-night orgy. Deflowering Sherlock together with two of his army mates was fun, albeit of a somewhat brutal kind. Living with him… that’s been more challenging, but not without its perks as well. 

Sherlock is all arrogance and snide remarks, always uptight, always wound up like a tightly coiled wire. He’s unbearably, almost inhumanely perfect in his work and his looks. But in bed, he’s still inept, spectacularly ignorant in some things, and even insecure at times. Someone else might think it’s a flaw, but not John. A weakness—yes, but a weakness to be exploited and relished. It has made Sherlock open for many suggestions of a very dubious nature. Made him trust when he should have been wary.

And see where it has brought him.

John was apprehensive about sharing Sherlock with Sholto and Murray again, mostly out of possessiveness—who wouldn’t want such a gorgeous fucktoy all for himself? But friends will be friends. How could he refuse when they’ve been so eager to have another go?

“I see you’ve been training him,” Murray says approvingly.

There’s a butt plug up Sherlock’s arse, not too large so he would be pleasantly tight, but not too small either. John put it there earlier this evening when Sherlock still expected it would be a holiday just for the two of them.

Sherlock makes a mewling sound, not exactly of a protesting kind this time, as Murray rims the stretched flesh around his hole with a thumb.

“So you’ve turned a virgin into a slut, but left some spirit in him, eh? What a nice combination.”

John doesn’t bother to hide a pleased smile.

Sherlock must be enraged, humiliated, and turned on in equal parts now. Oh yes, John has been training him quite a lot, especially in anal play, and with satisfying results.

“Do you mind if I fuck him right now?” Murray asks almost pleadingly. “I always wanted to try car sex.”

John exchanges glances with Sholto, they both nod to each other, and John gives his permission, “On you go. But maybe we should take his gag out first, hmm? What do you think? Do you want to hear how vocal he can be, or would you rather he stays mute?”

There’s a short dispute about it. On the one hand, Sherlock’s voice could be a perfect soundtrack to the entertainment they have in mind, very arousing; they all remember him moaning in abandon when they were trying out his hole in turns after a warm-up spanking. On the other hand, unlike the previous time, Sherlock might have some really unpleasant things to say because it’s a gangbang he hasn’t asked for. And talking isn’t what they all want from him—unless it’s begging of course, but Sherlock is unlikely to ask for their cocks of his own free will just yet.

In the end, Sholto and Muray vote for the first option. They can always gag Sherlock again, after all, if he’s too mouthy.

When John unties the ends of the rag fastened at Sherlock’s nape and pulls the cloth out, Sherlock slurs, “What the hell, John,” and tries to raise his head.

John firmly presses at his neck, holding him down. “Oi! That was rude. I know you’re surprised, but you had it coming. Remember I said you were overloading yourself with work? Well, now you’ll have a respite, just like I promised. No strain for your massive intellect anymore. Just physical activities. They can even be pleasant if you behave.”

“So you’re saying it’s for my sake?” Sherlock snarls.

John can’t help a chuckle. “Oh, not entirely, no. But you might enjoy yourself anyway…”

“Before you do anything that you might regret…” Sherlock begins heatedly, still acting like an indignant brat.

“…or not,” John says warningly, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s neck. “You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick. You should be paying attention to what I’m saying, not cutting me off. That’s what’s going to happen now: my friend Bill will have you, and you will keep still. Unless of course you’d like to actively participate and wriggle your slutty arse on his cock. Please don’t hold back then. I won’t judge you.”

“John!”

“Maybe you want that filthy rag back into your mouth? Just one more word, Sherlock—and your wish will be granted, I swear.”

Apparently, Sherlock doesn’t want that.

Murray takes the butt plug out none too gently—not because he’s annoyed with Sherlock, he’s just impatient to shove something else in its place—and after another fit of vigorous but silent thrashing on Sherlock’s part and some fumbling with a condom on Murray’s, Sherlock finally gets his arrogant arse full of cock.

“God, he’s tight,” Murray sighs out blissfully when he’s all the way in. “Just… just the right kind of tight.”

After that, it’s mostly laboured breathing, rhythmic slapping sounds, and Sherlock’s occasional groans, low and guttural.

Meanwhile, John complains to Sholto, “You can’t even imagine the trouble it took me to persuade him he needs a respite from work.”

“Will somebody be looking for him?”

“Nope. It’s not like he has lots of people to tell where he’s going.”

It’s a bit sad, come to think of it. But also convenient.

After Murray is finished with his pleasurable business, they make Sherlock step over his trousers—he won’t need them anymore—and escort him to the back of the garage where there’s a set of stairs down into the cellar. It’s time to get more comfortable.

Despite being naked, a little unsteady on his feet, and undoubtedly anxious about his foreseeable future, Sherlock walks under their guard with his head high, like a proud monarch held captive by common soldiers. He should be wearing a crown.

Okay. Fine. What do mercenaries do when they get a nobleman for a hostage? First of all, they show him who’s in charge.

The cellar is small and dimly lit, nothing too fancy, but John is pleased with the effect it has on Sherlock—he staggers on the last step, and his stoic countenance crumples for a moment. He casts a quick glance back, but of course he won’t have a chance at a run to the garage.

The cellar was cluttered with all kinds of rubbish left from generations of previous owners, but Murray helped Sholto to clear it out a bit. They kept back some things, though. The ones that might still be of use. The most prominent of them is a crude timber table, a large, sturdy frame that Murray has perfected by attaching restraints to it. Maybe this piece of furniture won’t get any awards at a design exhibition, but it will hold even if someone strapped to it starts thrashing about, which is much more important. Sholto also has chosen to keep a wire dog crate, and Murray has fixed the lock on it. He’s good at that kind of work, repairing and building things. Also, there are sturdy hooks and metal rings fastened to the walls on various levels—Murray’s doing as well—and shelves with, for lack of a more precise word, equipment. The only brand new item is a leather sling hanging from the ceiling. It’s John’s gift.

The second set of stairs on the other side of the room leads up into the house, but Sherlock isn’t going there, not just yet. He isn’t tamed enough to be allowed into the living quarters. As for a tiled corner with a drain and a shower nozzle, he’ll get acquainted with it much sooner, if not right now.

“How do you want him, fellas?” John asks.

“Maybe we should ask our guest what he prefers?” Murray suggests. “The sling? It’s nice and cosy. Or we could tie him to the wall, with his legs well spread. Like a frog. It’s less cosy, but maybe he likes to be on display.”

“Sherlock?” John prompts.

Sherlock doesn’t deign to answer.

“Sherlock, do you realise this is a tiny bit humiliating? I mean for me. I told my friends how good you had been during these three months, how eager to please, and now you’re acting up. They might think I’m a liar, and we don’t want that, do we?”

Sherlock still doesn’t respond, scowling at him. John sighs. “Okay, you’re forcing my hand. The table then, chaps. Face down.”

It takes some effort to strap Sherlock to it, but not too much. It’s as if Sherlock knows he should at least try resisting, but can predict the results right from the beginning. His intelligence plays against him. It often does.

When Sherlock’s ankles are secured, Murray unlocks his handcuffs and fastens the restraints on his wrists instead, one after the other. Now Sherlock is spread-eagled quite nicely.

John runs a finger down his spine, pressing slightly, to the vulnerably exposed crack between his buttocks.

“What’s going to happen now, it’s entirely your own fault, Sherlock,” he says almost sympathetically.

It must be a surprise for Sherlock that John’s hand travels further down, along his thigh, and lingers on the ticklish underside of his knee. John scraps it lightly with a nail. Sherlock tries to squirm away from the touch, but to no avail—he’s immobilised most efficiently. Snug leather straps, durable buckles. Murray should consider making dungeon furniture for sale.

“You are here to have a rest, just like I promised,” John continues as he caresses Sherlock’s calf, pleasantly smooth, with only a dusting of hair. “No cases, no exertion. Simple life. Peaceful routine. It took us some trouble to organize this for you. But I see you don’t appreciate our considerable efforts. We can’t have that.”

He scratches the sole of Sherlock’s foot, and Sherlock jerks in his bonds, hard. They hold of course.

John sighs. “I’ve been very patient with you, lenient even. My friends are less tolerant. They don’t like disobedience. Stronger military habits, I suppose.”

He rubs Sherlock’s other foot. This time, Sherlock anticipates that and keeps still. At least tries to.

“You’re well versed in anatomy, Sherlock. You know how sensitive the soles of your feet are. Very susceptible to pain. Lots of nerve endings there. You must have a pretty good guess how we’re going to correct your behaviour. Major, hand me a ruler please. It’s on the lower shelf. Yes, right there. Ta. Bill, you can take another one.”

John taps at the arch of Sherlock’s left foot with the thin plastic ruler, to give him a feel of it. Building up anticipation.

“It’s called bastinado. Feet whipping. It’s not only torture, it’s been used as a form of execution in China. Skilled professionals could go on _for hours_ without breaking skin, flicking it hundreds of times, before the victim went mad with pain. Imagine that? In the Middle East, there’s a different approach. No elegance, just blunt force—there are so many delicate, tiny bones that can be fractured, crippling a person for life. Nasty business! But don’t worry, we prefer the first method. Ready, Bill?”

They strike at the same time, John to the left and Murray to the right, and Sherlock predictably responds with a muffled wail, caught unawares despite all the warnings. Oh yes, he’s very sensitive. And it’s just a warm-up.

First, it’s more like a spanking. Rhythmic, loud slaps against the tender, vulnerable skin. Then they become more and more intense. No stray hitting—both John and Murray aim at the arches of Sherlock’s feet, between his heels and toes. If done wrong—or right, depending on desired outcome—bastinado can cause a great deal of damage. Bones, nerves, tendons, muscles—anything can be injured. Fortunately, Murray is precise, like when he’s taking a shot. As for John, his hand never shakes when it comes to violence.

Sherlock could have spoiled their aim if he started writhing under their blows, and he inevitably would, judging by how he shudders at each smack, but the tight restraints keep him in place. Again, he should be thankful, but he probably doesn’t even realise it just yet, too focused on the sharp, stinging pain that must be growing, with each new strike, into constant, unbearable burning.

Sholto, tired of being idle, rubs a finger inquisitively against Sherlock’s anus, reddened and tender after Murray has already made good use of it. A spread-eagled position isn’t good for intercourse, but sticking a thumb up Sherlock’s arse is an excellent idea. Except for the first surprised cry, Sherlock has tried be silent so far, but now his resolve crumbles and he lets out an unwanted sob.

People tend to fold quickly under bastinado, no matter how tough they think they are, especially if the pain is combined with humiliation. But Sherlock is stubborn, he never gives up when others do. John likes that about him, though sometimes this quality works against Sherlock. He expects too much of himself, exerts his strength to the limit. Just like now.

At least ten more slaps, then, to make him forget his vanity. To banish all thoughts out of him, except for one, _Let it stop let it stop let it stop!_

When Sherlock finally cries out, “John, please!”—it’s the signal they’ve been waiting for. The whipping ends, though Sholto continues to play with Sherlock’s hole, seemingly fascinated with it. John goes round the table and crouches down to see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock tries to turn away from him, unsuccessfully, to hide that his eyes are moist. Still not quite free of his pride, still worried what other people might think of him, even if they are absolute brutes.

But they’ll work on his misconceptions. There’s plenty of time for that.

John wipes a stray tear from Sherlock’s cheek. “There’s no shame in it, you know,” he says. “It’s a natural physical reaction. Like arousal. You can’t control it, but it’s okay, you don’t have to. No one is going to think less of you here if you cry or scream, or even if it turns you on when somebody fingers your arse. Any reaction is fine, Sherlock. Except disobedience. When you’re given a command, you’re going to obey, instantly. When you’re asked a question, you’ll answer at once. Is that understood?”

Sherlock utters a sullen, “Yes.”

“And don’t forget your manners. Be polite. _Yes, John_ or _Yes, sir_ would sound much better, don’t you agree?”

“Uh. Yes, John.”

His voice hitches because Sholto emphasises John’s reasoning with a few jabs of his finger, in and out of Sherlock’s hole, as an additional method of persuasion. You can never overdo debasing on the first stages of correcting a difficult subordinate.

It’s very promising that they’ve been able to reduce Sherlock to giving short responses right from the start. He’s usually far more talkative when something isn’t to his liking. Sure, there’s still some defiance left in him, but at least he tries to hold it back. The soles of his feet must be burning and throbbing; he will agree to anything right now to avoid further torment. Later, though, when he recovers? He might cause all sorts of trouble, so it’s better to be watchful and never give him a breather.

“We’re going to untie you now,” John warns him. “And we expect you to behave.”

When they help Sherlock up, he staggers and bites back a groan. He’s far from being crippled, or even badly damaged, but he’ll be unable to walk normally for the next half an hour or so. It’s very fortunate that he doesn’t have to.

“Hands and knees. Now,” John orders, pushing him down, and Sherlock does as he’s told, almost with relief. Pain dulls the remnants of his pride most effectively.

“Now crawl to the sling.”

John slaps Sherlock’s backside with the ruler, to make him hurry and simply because it’s fun, and Sherlock rushes forward like a high-strung race dog, scurrying to the centre of the room on all fours. Just lovely, the great Sherlock Holmes crawling like an animal. The sight makes John want to adjust his cock inside of his jeans; they suddenly seem a size too tight.

Sherlock doesn’t resist when his captors lift him up and place him in the sling, positioned on his back this time, like a life-size sex doll, and chain his legs and arms. This type of bondage is actually not as uncomfortable as it looks. John wouldn’t want his mates to know, but he tried this sling thing out before buying it. Sherlock isn’t the only one who considers experiments important, no matter how weird they might seem. Not just imagining but _knowing_ how it feels for Sherlock to be suspended, with his legs high up in the stirrups, makes this strange experience worthwhile. Well, maybe Sherlock doesn’t compare himself to an aerial acrobat stuck mid-air in a trapeze, but any other associations he has must be equally humiliating.

It’s a nice touch that his face is exactly at crotch level if he tilts his head back a little. As for his rear end, it’s presented quite nicely, too. There’s not even any need for a welcoming sign, “Please enter,” strapped to Sherlock’s backside: the pose itself is obvious enough.

“We should take pictures,” Murray suggests. “You said he’s got a website? If you post them, he’ll have a line-up of clients. Well, not of his usual kind, but you might make lots of money on him.”

“Quite possibly, yeah,” John says thoughtfully. “He might earn even more than he does now, actually. But I think we might make him look even better.”

Sherlock is very photogenic indeed. Tousled boyish curls, the pearly whiteness of his skin, even his pitifully quivering anus—everything is perfect about him. But some details can be added to his appearance for the sake of dramatic effect.

“Major, would you like to take him from the back or from the front?” John asks.

Sholto rubs his chin. “Hmm. A tough question. Maybe the front this time.”

“Sherlock, will you behave and let Major use your mouth, or do we need a spider gag?”

A moment of silence. John considers speeding things up with a ruler again when Sherlock finally manages, “No, we don’t need a gag. John.” He adds John’s name hastily after a pause, as an afterthought. And visibly tenses up, aware of his almost-failure.

“That’s good. Very good,” John encourages him—positive reinforcement is always important. “Just don’t linger with your answer next time.”

He taps at the upturned sole of Sherlock’s foot, making him twitch. Reminding of a punishment is never a bad idea either.

“This sling—it’s actually rather comfy, isn’t it? If you chose it right away, without being so obstinate, it would have saved us all a lot of unnecessary maneuvering, and you wouldn’t be in pain now. I hope you’ve learned your lesson and there will be no need to repeat it. Do what’s the easiest. You’re not going anywhere, so there’s no point in being difficult anymore, no point in fighting. Let yourself give in. Go limp, loosen up. Tilt your head back, relax your jaw, relax your whole body. _That’s_ the easiest choice. I’m sure you understand, you’re the clever one.”

Sherlock lets out something very close to a disbelieving huff, but he’s really clever enough not to contradict. Should it count as disobedience anyway? John decides to be indulgent for now and provides Sherlock with an additional argument: “Consider this—you like being the center of attention, right? But usually you need to work hard for it. Now you don’t. You already have it, we’re all focused on you.” He pats Sherlock’s rump reassuringly. “So enjoy yourself. Enjoy being useful and very much appreciated without doing anything at all. Simply open your mouth, and Major Sholto will take care of everything else.”

It’s rather unlikely that Sherlock has been persuaded by John’s speech because he’s still tense, but at least he opens his mouth like a good boy and keeps it that way when Sholto lightly slaps Sherlock’s face with his condom-sheathed cock, holding it by the base. Sholto would have had trouble managing one-handed if Sherlock didn’t cooperate, so it’s most convenient that Sherlock does. He only cringes in obvious revulsion when Sholto traces the perfect O of his lips with the tip of his shaft. Maybe the posh boy doesn’t like cheap latex. But John has an idea how to distract him.

He’s been barebacking Sherlock for quite a while, so he doesn’t bother with a condom. Sherlock gives a muffled “Oompf” when Sholto rams his entire length down his throat while John simultaneously pushes into him from behind. They quickly pick up the pace, overeager after a long wait. John’s balls pound against Sherlock’s buttocks, and the meaty slaps are accompanied by the sound of Sherlock’s gagging and occasional moans as he slobbers all over Sholto’s penis.

It ends too fast for John’s liking, but it’s been a long night. No matter how much fun it had been, the kidnapping took effort on their part. No wonder neither he nor Sholto lasts long.

Still, zipping himself back up, John contemplates Sherlock with sated satisfaction. Slumped in the sling, with cum slowly oozing out of his hole and saliva dripping down his chin, he’s a picture of decadent debauchery. Murray, perched on the table, is drinking in the sight with obvious relish, too.

“Don’t you think he deserves another correction?” he asks.

“How so?” John wonders lazily.

“He didn’t follow your advice to go limp. See?” Murray walks to the sling, reaches for Sherlock’s cock, which isn’t limp indeed, and gives it a few experimental strokes. “Does it mean he misbehaved?”

“Well yeah, drooling so much precum is a bit not good. He’ll be all sticky. But let’s be fair—I also told him to enjoy himself. Mixed messages. So let’s give him a chance to skip punishment. What do you think it is, Sherlock—a transgression or not? Are you simply enjoying yourself, like you were told to?”

Instead of giving a proper answer, Sherlock breathes out a shuddering “Ah!” Murray continues to coax more precum out of his straining cock, so it must be difficult for Sherlock to concentrate. John gets it. Yet he can’t let it slide that Sherlock responded so incoherently.

“Do better, Sherlock. Your mouth isn’t preoccupied. But we can always find another use for it again, mind, if you prefer to be mute.” John caresses Sherlock’s arched neck, then presses harder—not enough to suffocate him, but sufficient for it to be a warning. “Or maybe you’re at a loss what to say? It’s difficult for some people to overcome their inhibitions and admit they really like things that seem… unconventional. Is that the case with you? Are you unsure what you feel?” He leans in to whisper into Sherlock’s ear, “How hard do you find it, having to say, ‘I don’t know’?”

“I… don’t know,” Sherlock mutters defiantly.

John gives Murray a sign to stop. Predictably, Sherlock makes a frustrated noise, poor thing.

John runs a hand through his hair. “Oh Sherlock, you’ve been doing really well. But now you’re spoiling the fun. And what for? With us, you don’t have to resist and defy your needs, to lie to yourself, just because you think it’s inappropriate to want something. Like relief after you’ve been thoroughly fucked. You want to come, don’t you? So why pretend you’re above that? Why rob yourself of pleasure, huh?”

But Sherlock, having slightly recovered from his lust-induced frenzy, is stubbornly silent.

“Okay. We have something else to do then. It’s picture time!” John declares cheerfully, fishing out his phone.

 _Now_ Sherlock is in a perfect state for that—painfully erect, tainted with drool, spunk, and his own precum, the black leather of the sling picturesquely rough against the exquisite whiteness of his skin. He looks both depraved and mortified. And maybe also just a teensy bit regretful. That’s a start.

It’s getting late, so after an improvised photo session they decide it’s enough for now and it’s time to crate Sherlock for the night. It takes some preparations. First, John re-corks Sherlock’s obscenely gaping hole with a larger butt plug, so he will be ready for fresh fun in the morning. He’s still wet with John’s cum—no need for more lube.

Afterwards, another relocation. Sherlock responds better and better to being manhandled. No attempts at twisting out or kicking as they drag him across the cellar and push him head-first into the barred dog cage. It’s no easy fit for a tall man, but Sherlock manages to hunch there, kneeling, bent double, and Murray shuts and locks the cage door behind him. Sherlock will spend the night like that, cramped into an unnatural posture, his hole stretched wide around the heavy plug, his thighs covered with crusted drops of cum. They’ll clean him up tomorrow, but for now, it’s better if he feels the evidence of what has been done to him. It’ll teach him humility.

“See that?” John points at the camera on the wall. “It’ll keep a constant watchful eye on you, so please behave. Don’t play with your cock without us and don’t even think of taking out the butt plug. You might think we’ll be asleep and won’t notice, but you can never be sure. Also, don’t soil the cage even if you are desperate to relieve yourself, or you’ll be very, very sorry. And don’t try to call out for help. No one will hear, except for us, and my friends really don’t like to be disturbed in the middle of the night for nothing. They might come back here and teach you some good manners.”

It’s not like Sherlock will have many opportunities to be naughty, locked up in the cage, but John very much looks forward to finding out any signs of disobedience. It’ll be more fun.

“We would be glad to take you to the house, Sherlock,” he adds almost soothingly, “but we can’t, not until you prove we can give you some slack. It’ll take some time. I know you don’t like holidays at all, so you’re probably displeased about this one, too, and ‘some time’ might be a long while, actually. But believe me, it’s better for you than you are currently equipped to understand.”

With that, they leave Sherlock to contemplate his fate.

John sleeps lightly, stirring a few times to check on the live feed from the cellar. They left the light on, so he has a perfect view of Sherlock squirming in the cage, trying to get more comfortable and always failing. But he doesn’t try to pull the plug out, clever boy. Finally, Sherlock stills, his head bowed, and maybe dozes off, or at least tries to. Very well. He’ll be busy during the day, so he needs a good rest.

John plans to be the first one to visit Sherlock in the morning, but Sholto wakes up early, too, and trudges after him into the cellar. It makes John somewhat annoyed, but he tells himself that a spectator might make his little show even better.

Sherlock is asleep, or most likely, pretending to be. It’s fine with John either way. He winks at Sholto, unzips his morning hard-on, and it doesn’t take him long to come all over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock stirs up violently, lurching against the confines of the cage, but it’s steady enough not to rattle.

“Wakey-wakey! No, no, don’t touch it,” John warns him before Sherlock tries to wipe the sticky semen off. “Wait until it dries. I said don’t touch it, or I’ll add some piss to it.”

Sherlock blinks at him angrily, but says nothing and keeps his hands down.

John turns to Sholto. “I think we should spell ‘cum dumpster’ on his forehead. It’ll look good on him.”

They’ll clean the rest of his body, but this crust definitely stays.

Sholto nods. “Yes, I agree. Maybe we should add more decorative elements? How about nipple clamps?”

Wiping his hands with a tissue, John studies the array of useful gear on the shelves. “Good idea. I think he should put them on all by himself before we let him out. To prove his obedience. Here…” He picks up simple tweezer clamps with tiny bells that should tinkle with every movement and walks back to the cage. “Take this.”

Sherlock reaches out for them through the metal bars and studies the pinchy things with apprehensive curiosity.

“Come on, don’t make us wait,” John urges him.

“What time is it?” Sherlock suddenly asks, in a very normal voice, like they are home at Baker Street and he isn’t locked in a dog cage.

It startles John. “What does it matter?”

Sherlock makes a face. “You’re not going to like it.”

This very moment, the door upstairs swings open, and Murray calls out, concerned, “John, we have a visitor.”

“I know exactly who that is,” Sherlock mutters.

John has his own suspicions, too, and yes, he believes Sherlock is right: he isn’t going to like it.

It’s strange to see Inspector Lestrade standing in the hall, all casual, hands in his trouser pockets. A familiar figure on a new stage. Behind his back, there’s a lovely view of the garden through the glass door. It’s actually a nice place, this cottage. Perfect for a retired ex-military man, very peaceful. One would never think of a makeshift dungeon down in the cellar. Hopefully.

Lestrade greets John with a brief smile. “Oh hello. Is Sherlock with you? He isn’t answering his phone.”

Of course he isn’t.

“Yeah, he’s here, I mean he’s around, but he’s… um… a little busy right now,” John blabbers. “Couldn’t you leave him a message or something? I’ll make sure he calls you later.” He realizes it’s a bit rude and suspicious, ushering Greg out just like that, so he adds, “Tea maybe? Sherlock won’t be back soon, but I feel bad letting you go after such a long trip.”

Lestrade shrugs. “I don’t mind waiting. In fact, I have a day off. My car is stuck in the mud just outside your gates, so it looks like I’ll be here a while anyway. A cuppa would be great.”

The muddy ditch is not a deliberate trap, yet an effective one. But now John wishes Greg would leave at once. He’s desperately searching for pretexts to make Greg go back to London when he hears something he shouldn’t be hearing. Footsteps. Bare feet thumping gently against the wooden floors.

John turns back, disbelieving his own ears. And eyes. But yep, behold the impossible! Sherlock walks in, casually draped in a throw that he clearly has sneaked on his way through the house. He’d drying up his dripping wet hair with its free end.

They all stare at him open-mouthed.

Sherlock looks Lestrade up and down nonchalantly. “No helicopter? No special forces storming the house? I’m disappointed. Does Mycroft think my handler will be enough to single-handedly take out John’s friends if I’m in danger from them? Or are you here just to spy on me?”

Lestrade cringes. “Look, I’m not your handler... and I don’t just do what your brother tells me. Well, not always. I was worried, too, okay? You usually respond when there’s an interesting case. I didn’t really think…” He casts a quick apologetic glance at John. “But I thought I’d rather check, you see?”

John feels sorry for him. Sherlock’s customary diplomacy and tact are notorious, but at least he could thank Greg for taking the trouble and driving all the way to Sussex on his day off.

But he also knows Sherlock’s aggressiveness is always a sign he’s nervous—and appalled at his own anxiety. Greg probably isn’t paying attention, but Sherlock’s posture is very rigid. Undoubtedly, his legs must be weak and tingling with pins and needles after the whole night in the tiny cage, cramped for too long. He doesn’t want Lestrade to notice.

“How about tea anyway?” John suggests, trying to distract Greg.

“Uh. No. If not for the car, I’d rather go back if everything is really fine?” The end of his phrase turns into a question.

Sherlock waves at him dismissively. “The others could help you with that. And we’ll all happily return to our own business.”

“We could,” Murray volunteers immediately and not so subtly pokes Sholto in the ribs so he would agree, too. It’s blatantly obvious that they want Lestrade to leave as soon as possible. And yes, Sholto, even one-handed, will be of better help with the car than John.

“How did you get out?” John demands to know when he is finally alone with Sherlock, watching the three men march through the garden.

Sherlock snorts. “Oh please. You provided me with a skeleton key yourself. Nipple clamps, remember? Anything will do for picking a lock when you’re desperate enough.”

Indeed, that was a miscalculation on John’s part, he must admit.

There’s one more important thing to ask, though. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah. Fine. Absolutely fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock murmurs automatically, pacing around the tiny hall, as if at a loss what to do with himself now. “I’m always fine. I’m known to be indestructible.”

John isn’t good at difficult conversations, so he starts from afar. “Now people will definitely talk if Greg blurts something out. Not on purpose of course, but…”

Sherlock stops dead and frowns at him. “Does it bother you? People talking?”

“Me—no, not really. But it must be different for you. I mean you’re this far from famous.” He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “So if he says something indiscreet… There could be rumors.”

“There is nothing wrong with me!” Sherlock snaps.

“I _know_ , okay?”

He wants to say, “You can want all this, and still be brilliant, still worth respect, still _you_.” But when it’s not dirty talk or commands, he finds it hard, making speeches.

Besides, others might be of a different opinion. Sherlock has already had his share of being called a freak, and while John enjoys his humiliation in private, he wouldn’t want him to go through this in the _real_ world. If he only could, he’d keep Sherlock locked up in a dungeon forever, safe from any judgmental idiots, but things never work like that, do they?

Secretly, he’s very much afraid that Sherlock might break away from the hook because of it, but it’s unfair to keep him unaware of possible consequences.

There’s a moment of silence between them—and then Sherlock’s mouth suddenly twitches with a smile. “You didn’t ask Lestrade how he found you. However intimidating Mycroft wishes to appear, he’s hardly surveilling us non-stop through a satellite. Did you tell Mrs Hudson where we’d be staying?”

“Why would I? What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?”

“The sort that likes to boast, the sort that thinks it’s all a game. Or a very considerate one.”

“Guess which one I am.”

“Both.”

John laughs, a little embarrassed. “How did _you_ know Lestrade would show up the minute he did?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Really? I correctly anticipated the responses of people I know so well? Can’t everyone do that?”

The bloody show-off.

John was vague about his plans, and much of the kidnapping scenario surely was a surprise for Sherlock, but probably not all of it. The hints John dropped must have given him a general idea, or he would have been more reluctant about leaving London.

“So basically, you knew you’d be abducted and brought here against your will? On the whole, was it what you had expected?”

“More or less. Except the boot. The boot was mean. And the gag was tied sloppily. Don’t you military people know how these things are done? With my hands cuffed in front of me, I could have easily taken it out.”

John won’t tell him, but that was rather the point. What if something went wrong and Sherlock really couldn’t call for help? Yet everyone’s a critic.

He’s prepared for more acrid comments, so it’s very much a shock when Sherlock says quietly, “Thanks for organizing this for me. Talking your friends into this. Planning everything.”

It startles John for a moment that Sherlock sees it that way. He’s really convinced that they are here for him, not vice versa. But maybe he’s right, they are. At least John is.

“I think I broke one of your nipple clamps,” Sherlock adds apropos of nothing. “I had to take out the rubber nibs so the ends would be sharp. It was kind of… pretty. Bells and all that.”

Another miracle—he sounds genuinely regretful. Oh my.

John pats his arm awkwardly. “It’s okay. A drop of glue—and we’ll mend it. Promise.”

The front door swings open. Sholto and Murray are back, both grinning and a little muddy.

“That was actually brilliant, escaping from a locked cage. A very impressive entrance,” Bill says, and it’s funny how Sherlock brightens up. So predictable.

“I actually liked this Scotland Yard man. Maybe we should have invited him to join in,” Murray continues with some regret. “A nice scary inspector might come in very handy when it comes to dealing with fugitives.”

Sherlock looks at him, uncomprehending. Oh. With all this talking, he seems to have forgotten that the game is still on. Well, they need to remind him then. His daring escape has been useless since he hasn’t really got away.

John lays a hand on Sherlock’s bare shoulder, gently but very firmly. “I see you cleaned yourself before walking in here. I also suspect you have taken the butt plug out, though I distinctly remember telling you not to. And maybe even relieved your bladder. Are you deliberately provoking us?”

“No, I…”

“One word, Sherlock! One word to let Greg know that you were held here against your will, and you could have left, but you were too proud to ask for help, weren’t you? It’s either that, or you enjoyed your stay with us. But then again, I suspect your pride wouldn’t let you admit it. Yet. Either way, we’ll have to work on your behaviour.”

Murray and Sholto step closer, synchronically, blocking any possible escaping routes. John tugs at Sherlock’s improvised cloak, and it slips to the floor.

“Much better,” he nods approvingly. “Major, I believe you happen to have a webbing belt, nice and heavy. We could make use of it. And then we’ll all have breakfast, like we were planning to. If you were well behaved, Sherlock, we could have hand-fed you, but now you’ll have to eat on the floor, from a dog bowl. And you’re going to lick it clean. No rejecting food, like you usually do.”

He doesn’t add, _or else_ , but it’s implied.

He anticipates the peaceful rural scene, them sitting around the kitchen table and Sherlock on all fours at their feet, temporarily meek after screaming his voice hoarse during the long, harsh whipping, with his arse burning red, available for any of them to use as they please. The most delightful thing about it—all of them will be aware that he isn’t going anywhere now that he hasn’t used his most solid chance at running off.

Sherlock once said, “I love the brilliant ones—so desperate to get caught.” John totally agrees, at least when it comes to one brilliant person in particular.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com/) if you want to know more about me and my kinky stories :)


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